Lemon Songs
by lastglimpseofwinter
Summary: She knew she would never find the girl again, Sansa would be a woman grown, and she probably hated lemon cakes by now...


The war had ravaged the Seven Kingdoms, and by the time it was over there wasn't a stone, tree or person anywhere within that didn't bare scars. She had returned when she first heard word of a Queen in the North, with Needle in hand, and her hair trailing behind her like a banner, stopping only to purchase some pastries along the way.

Wintertown was a welcome sight, she hadn't seen it in years. In another life she had played amongst the market with her brothers and the village boys, ducking and weaving through the crowds, laughter and smiles in their wake, _but that was not her life. _The bells were ringing from the the makeshift tower and the town was more populated than she recalled it ever being; Wintertown was more often than not deserted, it was only during the winter that it was used, as the smallfolk would gather there due to it's close proximity to Winterfell.

With each toll of the bells she could feel the crowd's excitement grow, they were gathered around a makeshift platform. Upon such was a log with a dip for where the head would rest, a small crowd of people, kept in check by manacles and soldiers, a woman with hair like blood, and a boy carrying a longsword._ 'Ahh,' _she thought,_ 'an excecution.' _She didn't know why they were being sentenced to death, _but these were no longer her people, and as such no longer her concern._ Silence fell as the bells stopped.

Despite seeing many excecutions in her life, she felt the need to see this one through. The woman upon the platform sent a glance at the young boy, _a Karstark by the look of him, _and he brought the sword to her as the soldiers brought the first prisoner. With more strength then expected, the woman unsheathed it, delicate white hands clasped over the handle. _"In the name of Eddard of House Stark, former Lord of Winterfell, and Robb of House Stark, fallen King in the North. I, Sansa of House Stark sentence you to death."_

The words were repeated over and over again, as prisoner after prisoner were brought forward and forced to kneel. The first eight were Freys, if their weasel like features were anything to go one, and the final three were Lannisters. _Their final words went unheard as Sansa seemed to feel that they did not deserve the honour of speaking their peace before death._ When all was said and done, and the crowd began to disperse, Arya remained.

She stood on the far edge of the courtyard; still it was closer than they had been to eachother since the Sept of Baelor. Adjusting her stance so Needle was proudly displayed, she stared at the woman. As if sensing her stare, Sansa turned. Her eyes were startling, once a vivid blue they were now a stormy shade, _almost Stark grey._ Neither moved, Arya stood in the mud carrying nothing but a brown sack, with her faded pants and a simple, non-descript cloak, Sansa poised with a woolen dress of grey, _stains of red adorned the sleeves and lower half,_ and a circlet of bronze and iron upon her auburn curls. _'Heavy?'_ Arya wondered. They were so close, barely a stone's throw apart, _but as always neither could bridge the gap._

Instead they stood quietly, just taking in the other. Arya was mudsplattered and had slightly raggedy hair, but with wise grey eyes, a sword and high cheekbones, _she looked a warrior queen. _Crow's feet already creeping upon the edges of Sansa's eyes, and pale hands scarred and bloodied,_ it appeared as if she was more Stark than anyone had ever thought. _The sun began to go down, casting a golden hue through the yard. Arya strode across towards her sister, until they were within reach of eachother, then with all the respect she could muster, _"My Queen," _Arya curtsied, "_long may you reign."_

Her sister smiled in return, and inclined her head. _"Arya, wild as ever I see."_

_"Wilder." _A wolf's grin crept across her face, canines glinting in the fleeting sun.

Sansa laughed, it was unlike her childhood giggles, more real. Arya wished that this was the sister she had growing up, _she could have been close with this Sansa._ Laugh subsiding, she stretched out her arms and embraced Arya. Stiffening before returning it, she smiled, _'I would have been very close with this Sansa.' _

They stayed in eachother's arms for a moment that could have been a hour, before seperating, a brown sack by Sansa's feet and a Frey's head by Arya's. _"By your leave,"_ Arya danced off, out toward the houses, turning right before she was out of sight, _"sister."_

A thousand years ago she had known a girl who loved lemon cakes. She had soaked herself in stories and songs, but her life resembled her cakes more than she had probably considered, for the lemons were as bitter and sour as the girl's life. She never found the girl, nor did the girl find her. If she believed in happy endings, she would have searched the Seven Kingdoms over and over until she found the girl, but Arya had never believed in happy endings. She knew she would never find the girl again, Sansa would be a woman grown, _and she probably hated lemon cakes by now_...or so the songs would say.

The people in Wintertown say that the god's must have told their Queen a great joke after she carried out their justice that day, _for she laughed louder than thunder when the sun set. _The Queen in the North says it's because her little sister who never much listened to her, had brought her twenty-six of her favorite pastries; _a lemon cake for each name day she had missed and left them at her feet as a pledge of fealty_. Arya says it's because Sansa _finally got a sense of humor._

Each year following, a lemon cake would be sitting in Sansa's chambers on her name day, but they never saw one another again,_ or so say the songs._


End file.
